23. Queenie
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘STITCHES (MTV UNPLUGGED) BY SHAWN MENDES
I finish my soak and shower in twenty-five minutes and wander downstairs in my comfiest sweatshirt and pjs, after moisturizing everything twice. There are actual holes in my cotton pants, but I don’t care. I feel a million times better than I did before the bath.
My mouth drops open in unattractive shock at seeing Ares vacuum feathers and stuffing from the floor. Fox is stacking blankets and pillows on the floor where one of the couches used to be. It’s now pushed against the corner, disturbing the beauty and flow of the family room.
“What happened here?”
Ares shrugs and grunts. Fox grunts as he fluffs up the pillows. “We broke Noah’s bed because we were practicing indoors.”
“You broke—” I shake my head. This doesn’t make sense. So, I try for another topic. “Why are you cleaning up?” I direct this question at Ares. “Isn’t the staff supposed to do it?”
“What staff?” Ares unwinds the vacuum wire. “We’re the staff here. There’s no one else.”
I digest this information in silence. So, these rich boys are actually keeping their own house. They are cooking and cleaning up after themselves, instead of depending on other people. Just like me.
Dammit. Point one to the rich boys.
“Then, why wasn’t I told of my share of chores?” I demand.
Fox sits on the bed. “You’re our guest. We’re not going to make you do chores, Queenie.”
“I’m not a guest, I live here. With you,” I protest automatically.
“You’re here because Noah messed up badly. Nothing else.” Ares kicks at the vacuum in frustration. “Does anyone know how to remove the dirt bag from this blasted thing?” He growls.
I groan and stalk toward him. “Here, give me that.” I depress the bag remover button and hold it in the other hand when it drops.
Ares squeezes my shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”
I grin softly at him. “You’re welcome, mate.” I try for his accent but fail hard. Then I sigh. “Listen, we’re going to do an equitable distribution of chores. Because I am not a guest, okay?”
“Talk to Noah about it.”
“Is he like your cult leader or something?” I hand the bag to Ares who drops it into the trash bag which holds up the remains of the couch pillows.
Ares begins slowly, “It’s because he’s always had a thi?—”
“He is the most responsible of all of us,” Fox interrupts him firmly. “And taking care is his middle name. Besides,” Fox adds carelessly. “It’s Noah’s house. He owns it. So, if Noah says it’s okay then we distribute chores equitably.”
I sit down on the mattress abruptly, when my knees give way.
Noah owns this million-dollar mansion, not his family! What in the world am I doing here? What is he doing with me?
Just then, the object of my confusion strides in, hidden behind a mountain of delivery boxes.
“Pizza’s here,” Noah announces. “So’s chocolate and wine. And I picked up paneer pakoras for Queenie.” He gives me a tiny smile. “You love them, don’t you?”
My heart knocks once. He got me all my comfort food and wine, and he owns this mansion he casually calls the cottage. “You…you remember I love cottage cheese?”
Noah shrugs as he offloads some of the food to Ares. “I texted Mischa just to confirm it. We had raw banana plantain fritters that night, didn’t we?”
My face warms at his words. I’d loved hanging out with him. Loved watching his pretty face. He was entertaining and funny and not at all full of himself. Three qualities that are anti-jock.
Who is Noah Dumaine, really?
“Thank you.” I drop my eyes and worry the mattress. I can’t look him in the eye. My instinct to yell at him for taking care of me is warring with my gooey heart because he’s gone to so much trouble for me. The woman he doesn’t like or trust. The woman he told his secrets to.
Hot tears fill my eyes again. I chalk it up to period hormones.
“Today’s cheat day.” Ares sniffs at the opened pizza box. “So much cheating.”
I laugh. “Yep, all the cheating in the world.”
I help the boys set up the food on the table and grab flatware – wine glasses and Delft dishes – for the junk food. Then I curl up in a chair with two slices of farmer’s special with extra cheese and an entire plate of delicious paneer pakoras, as my roommates settle around me.
To my inner surprise, Noah chooses the chair next to me. His shoulder brushes mine, when he settles in.
“Queenie was saying she wants to do more chores around the house.” Ares talks with a mouthful of pizza.
Noah glares at him while Fox laughs out loud. I choke on my mouthful of wine.
“I said equitable distribution,” I grit out. “Stop exaggerating, Ares.”
Noah laughs too. And I’m…enchanted. He is boyishly, ridiculously handsome. Even his eyes laugh. I take a quick sip of wine. The hate I nursed in my bones for Noah is slowly dissolving, so the attraction I always feel toward him – like a freaking magnet seeking polarity – is back. In full force.
This is such a bad idea. Bad. Bad. Idea .
“You don’t have to—” Noah begins.
“I’m living rent-free as your roommate, people. I won’t be a freeloader too,” I say firmly.
“But—” Noah says again.
“Butt out, Noah.” Fox smiles warmly at me as he cuts his pizza with a knife and fork and spears a bite of pakora down. “Just bring home pies every day. I need my healthy sugar fix.” He hits me with a puppy dog look – all cute and hopeless.
I smile. “Alright. I’ll get pie for you and Ares. But.” I give them a stern look. “Noah gets first share, okay? To make up for all the pie thieving.”
Ares face drops but he nods. “Fine.”
“And I’ll do the vacuuming three times a week,” I add generously, “For the general areas of the house. Your rooms are your responsibility.”
“Done.” Fox bumps fists with me. “Done.” Ares high fives me.
Noah just shakes his head and scarfs down pizza.
“About breakfast…” Ares begins plaintively, cartoon hearts in his chocolate brown eyes.
“And—” I sigh and give into the inevitable. “I’ll make breakfast and coffee thrice a week. But that is it.”
“Queenie, you absolutely do not have to feed these arses.” Noah glares at his friends. Looking like The Asshole again, only this time defending me. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it hot.
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.” I give him a small smile. “Consider it a small thank you for letting me crash here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Fox and Ares raise their glasses. “To equitable distribution of chores,” Fox says. “To delicious coffee,” Ares intones. Noah gives in and raises his Coke bottle and says, “To Queenie, our best roommate yet.”
I try and hold his gaze when he toasts me but even my toes tingle from the deep words. They drink a toast to me after clinking glasses.
I just let all the good vibes wash over me and take my mind off the cramps.
When I ask them about alcohol and carbs impairing their ability to play, they give me a rundown of how bodies break down fat and calories in the gym with different equipment and exercises. It’s fascinating and dinner flies by in no time, with my roommates.
The next night too, they treat me to a junk food feast. But this time, I shoo them out of the kitchen and take over cleaning up after dinner.
I’m humming a Miami Vice soundtrack song, something about pennies in my pocket, when Noah strides back in. “Do you want any help?”
I laugh and flick water at him. “I’m fine, Noah. You don’t have to always take care of me.”
“Why not?” He straddles the chair and sits on it backward. “What’s wrong with taking care of the people in my life?”
I want to say something about how being his sick mom’s caregiver has influenced how he views people-to-people interaction, but I shrug and continue drying the five-figure dishes we just ate burgers from. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” I answer finally.
I dry a wine glass and ask him the one question buzzing in my head since yesterday. “So, you own this place?”
Noah shrugs. “Yeah. I do. When I turned twenty-one, I received a trust fund from mum’s lawyer. She’d been saving up for me since before I was born. It was –” He names a seven-figure amount. “Anyway that, combined with the money I got from playing the city league before I washed out, helped me buy this place.”
“Wow,” I manage. “That’s…incredibly adult of you. Congratulations, Noah. I am very impressed with you.” And I am. He is now turning into the man I was attracted to from minute one. Kind and generous and amazing and hot.
Worse, he is the kind of person I want to become. Responsible, adult, and sure of himself.
“It’s just money, Queenie.” But the tips of his ears turn pink.
“Says someone who’s never had to worry about it in his life, I bet,” I retort dryly.
Noah looks at his hands. “There are some things even money cannot buy, you know?”
I bite my lip. He’s talking about his mom’s cancer. And I am an insensitive ass for bringing it up.
“I know.” And I do know. All the money in the world couldn’t change what happened to me in January.
“Your cramps?” He changes subjects deftly. “Are they bad now?”
I shake my head, allowing him the change. “No, they’re almost gone.” My lips twitch in contentment. “Turns out I just needed ten thousand calories and three Australian cricketers telling me about the benefits of rowing for ninety minutes every day.”
“That’s good.”
“Although…” I dry the last plate and slide it into the rack. Take a sip of the excellent Bordeaux.
“Yes?” He turns patient eyes on me.
The squishy feeling doubles. I choose something money cannot buy. Time. “I sometimes watch a movie to take my mind off the pain.”
“Practice is at ten tomorrow. We could do movie night, yeah,” Noah says casually.
My heart thuds fast as I watch him over the rim of the glass. “Just the two of us?” I can’t help but remember the last time we watched a movie. Just the two of us. And the fucking kiss I cannot recall.
“If it’s got guns and explosions, Fox and Ares are in.” Noah stands up from the chair and doesn’t look at me. But the tips of his ears are a cute cherry red, now.
“Well—” I trail off slowly. “This one might work.”
Ten minutes later, when the theme to Mission Impossible 2 begins playing on the giant TV screen, Noah gives me a look. “Freaking Tom Cruise?” he mutters. “You like to watch Tom Cruise when you want to forget about your cramps.”
“Actually.” I filch a handful of popcorn from Fox’s bowl, sprawled on the ground. Engrossed in the film. “I like to watch his shampoo commercial hair move about as he kicks ass and takes names.”
“His hair?”
I nod and lean in and talk in an undertone to Noah. “He’s got the perfect straight hair in this movie. I love-hate it because I want it so much.”
Noah stuffs popcorn in his mouth.
I think he won’t reply when he says a moment later, “I love-hate your hair then.” In a very matter of fact tone.
I slink deeper into the couch and pretend to watch Tom scale Dead Horse Point with his bare hands. But inside, I am reeling from the idea that Noah loves my hair. My unruly, curly, difficult to manage hair.
What’s worse? I can’t stop imagining him touching it. Touching me…